Everything That Rushes Must Converge
Full brunt, this rain,
soaking skin and kin
giving reign to soppy land
and wise-acre trees whose trunks
in their permanence
mock the trivialities we embrace--
sweat they, not with perspiration
but long-sluiced rains come early.
Creeks rush, find the low country
grass-smelt, bless-earthy
swabbed by a thousand ‘posting oak leaves;
from the peaks the tributaries seen
the tributaries swear
and take the path of least resistance
but everything that rushes
must converge.
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